by Wendy Warren
“I took a long lunch break today,” he told her. “Half an hour to convince you to join me, and an hour for us to eat and talk.” The appealing, self-mocking smile curved his lips again. “I figure we both have about fifty-five minutes left. My place is close by, or it might be warm enough to sit in the park.”
“Park,” she chose immediately, thinking that it had taken her a decade of marriage to accept that men didn’t like to sit and talk. Just her luck that she’d had a one-night stand with a man who wanted to get chatty. At least if they went to the park, where there might be other people enjoying the spring day, she’d feel safer. After days—and nights—deliberating, she had decided how she wanted to handle her pregnancy and his involvement with the baby, assuming he insisted on any. In a public place his reaction would necessarily be tempered, and that was a good thing. Because she was darn sure he wasn’t going to like her plan one bit.
Chapter Six
Dean had never in his life wanted anything as much as he wanted to break down the wall Rosemary Jeffers had erected around herself…and his baby.
The child growing inside her was his, and whatever else might be right or wrong about their relationship took a backseat to that singular fact. A month ago, engaged to Amanda for reasons more practical than idealistic, he’d considered a future without children and had thought he might be fine focusing on his business, his plans to open a community health cooperative and spending time with his new niece and nephews. His life would be full enough.
Now fatherhood was an imminent reality. That changed everything, including his approach toward Rosie. Getting past her defenses wasn’t an option: it was a necessity.
“The park is up Fifth Street,” he said, pointing as they approached Main. Deliberately, he tempered his ground-eating strides to more closely match the steps she took—short and reluctant, as if she were shuffling to her own guillotine. “It’s got covered picnic tables and a gazebo.”
“I know. I walk by it when I go to work.”
“Speaking of work, is that what brought you to Honeyford?”
“Yes.”
When she declined to elaborate, Dean persisted. “I’m sure library jobs are hard to come by in this economy, but even so there are people who would resist living in a town of under two thousand. Particularly young, beautiful, single women.”
He saw her thin, dark brows arch in surprise, watched a pink blush stain her ivory cheeks, and felt both pleased and annoyed that someone as lovely as she would be surprised to hear a man refer to her as beautiful.
He put a hand beneath her elbow as they traversed Main, but released her once they were safely across.
“Were you coming from another small town?” he asked, determined to discover, one way or another, how she had lived—and with whom—prior to moving to Central Oregon. And prior to showing up at Tavern on the Highway.
“I grew up in Portland,” Rosie revealed hesitantly. “I’ve never lived anywhere but a city.”
Dean whistled. “From Portland to Honeyford. Kind of like switching from triple-shot espresso to decaf.”
Rosie laughed, and he liked the sound of it. “So you stayed in Portland after school,” he prompted. “Where did you meet the women who were at the Tavern with you?”
“We went to high school together.”
“It says a lot that you’ve remained friends through the years. Are you pretty loyal in general?”
Rosie seemed to relax a bit as they moved away from Main Street. She considered his question. “Yes. I’m loyal.” She slanted a glance at him. “And, no, I am not going to discuss my marriage with you, and, yes, I know that’s where you’re going with this.”
He laughed. “Still, the least you can do is tell me whether you were a free agent the night we met. Because I’m concerned that you might have compromised me.”
“You’re concerned?”
“I already told you that you have nothing to worry about. Care to put my mind at ease? I’d hate to go to my grave thinking I was ‘the other man.’”
She shook her head, appearing partly amused, and partly be mused. “Reassuring my one-night stand,” she murmured. “You boy toys are a lot more high maintenance than I knew.”
“It’s hard not knowing where you stand. We’re sensitive that way.” Call him old-fashioned, he liked being reminded that he was her first and, so far, only fling. “So?” He waggled his brows, inviting her answer.
“You can sleep like a baby tonight. I was a completely free agent.”
A knot of tension in Dean’s chest began to loosen at the news. “On the rebound from anyone?”
“Dean…” she warned, still prickly about getting personal despite the fact that they’d already been about as personal as a couple could get. He decided not to back down.
“It’s that darn sensitivity issue again. How about you humor me this one time?”
“I have a feeling that humoring you ‘one time’ is like handing a six-year-old one M&M and expecting him not to ask for another.”
Laughter dissolved the rest of the knot. “You’re right.”
“I wasn’t on the rebound. I hadn’t been in a relationship at all for a couple of years. And that’s all I’m saying,” she hastened to add. “So move on now.”
“Okay. We’ll talk about neutral things until we get to the park.”
“The park is only a block away.”
“Yeah.” He clucked his tongue regretfully. “That’s the problem with small towns. The geography makes a lengthy neutral discussion almost impossible.”
She cocked her head, looking adorable, he decided. Finally she merely shook her head at him, but he noticed her lips twitching.
When they reached the park, they had a choice between having their lunch at the picnic tables or in the gazebo. Rosie chose the gazebo, a fact he filed away for future use. Gazebos were, after all, pure small-town romance.
Dean couldn’t claim a wealth of experience in the realm of romancing a woman. Amanda had been decidedly “anti-artifice,” as she referred to the trappings of courtship. His sister-in-law’s appraisal that Amanda was a romantic at heart because she had a penchant for pink cookies didn’t jive a bit with what he’d experienced of his former fiancée, but now he wondered whether he hadn’t tried hard enough to turn their engagement into more of a courtship. The motivation hadn’t been there, on either side.
With Rosie, the motivation was a continuous hum.
He couldn’t look at her without remembering the sight of her in bed, the feel of her beneath him and the half surprised, half uncontrollable sounds of her pleasure.
That’s what he wanted again. He’d wanted it about every fifteen minutes since that night. He wanted it right now, before lunch, in the gazebo if necessary and with as little foreplay as possible.
And then he’d romance her. He’d give her all the hearts, flowers, candlelight and whatever else a woman wanted until the thought of him, of them, filled her mind the way it had been filling his. And then—
God willing, sex again.
Sitting demurely on the gazebo’s curved bench, Rosie folded her hands on her lap.
Dean loosened the tie he’d worn to work. You are lusting after the mother of your child.
Seemed like a good sign.
He sat beside her, leaving enough space between them for her to feel comfortable. He had always, after all, been a polite man. Self-control had never been a chore for him; it came naturally.
He wanted to push her cardigan aside and dip his hand into the loose neckline of her dress, remembering exactly what he’d find inside. And how she had felt, cupped in his palm. And how damn perfect she’d looked to him.
Quickly, he unrolled the white bakery bag. “Turkey?” His voice sounded as if he’d dragged his vocal chords across sandpaper. Sweat popped out along his upper lip. He wiped it away, clearing his throat. “It’s warm today.”
Rosie dragged the edges of her sweater closer together. “I’m a little chilly.” Taking the sandwich he
offered her, she gave him a weak smile. “This looks good. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. My sister-in-law works at Honey Bea’s.” He passed her a napkin and a bottle of sweetened iced tea. “She’s hoping to become a full partner this year.”
“I’ve been in the bakery once or twice.” Delicately his lunch mate peeled the plastic wrap from a thick, soft roll Dean’s brother had dubbed The Rozzy Roll in honor of his toddler daughter, who loved to gnaw them until they were paste. Rosie smiled ruefully. “Generally I try to stay out of bakeries. Also ice-cream parlors and candy stores. I have a runaway sweet tooth.”
“Your figure hasn’t suffered.” He squelched an urge to leer. “Take my word for it.”
She ducked her head briefly, making it impossible to gauge her reaction then said, “I’m going to have to be more careful than ever now that I’m—”
Abruptly she cut herself off, as if refusing to discuss the situation with him would make it less real, or would make him less a part of it.
“Pregnant,” he finished for her. Polite or no, he by-God wasn’t going to let her skirt the issue. If he did, she’d avoid him until it was time for her to push his baby out.
“I’ll remember that you’re pregnant, Rosie, whether you mention it or not.” Though there was no one nearby to overhear, he spoke quietly, intently, declaring the intimacy that linked them more loudly than if he’d shouted. “And I do recall…in detail…how you got that way. I remember every time I look at you.” Seeing her eyes grow big and round, he hammered home one final point. “Eat. We Kingsleys love a good meal.”
He could tell by her expression that she got the drift: this baby was going to be a Kingsley, and he was going to be a very present father. He hadn’t considered the day-to-day reality of that nor had he considered any alternatives, but now that he’d spoken he knew exactly where he stood. The only question worth contemplating was whether they were going to parent together or apart.
And, what he was going to do about the damned will.
Looking away, though he wanted nothing more than to crush her to him and see if she tasted as good as she had that night, he concentrated on unwrapping the sandwich instead of the woman. The hunger in his stomach was weak and puny compared to another, more pressing appetite.
All his adult life, Dean had prided himself on being a gentleman. Animals reacted from instinct; human beings used reason to control their behavior. Fletcher had taken the opposite tack for his first twenty-eight years, generally acting rashly and claiming he left the thinking to Dean. For the first time, Dean envied his younger brother’s lack of caution.
The muscles throughout his midsection clenched. Controlling himself with effort, he took a bite of turkey with avocado and Havarti, but his favorite sandwich was tasteless today.
“I have been giving a great deal of thought to our…situation.” The voice that came from his right was soft and hesitant, almost as if Rosie were speaking to herself.
At least she said “our” situation, he told himself, swallowing the bite of sandwich and turning toward her fully. “And?”
Her fingers gripped the sandwich. “What you said before—about this town being too small to have a neutral conversation—I know you were being facetious, but it’s true in a way. Honeyford’s not tiny, but two people with jobs as public as ours are bound to the object of gossip if someone finds out about…”
“Our situation,” he supplied wryly.
“Yes.”
“Mmm-hmm. I’d say it’s more a matter of when they find out, not if.” He watched her closely, his breath held, feeling clear as a bell that he’d never asked a more important question or waited for a more seminal answer. “Wouldn’t you?”
She pressed her lips together, taking time before she answered, and he felt as if he were hanging from the edge of a cliff, waiting for someone either to pull him to safety or pry his fingers loose, one by one.
“If I can find another job,” she said, “we might not have to discuss it with anyone for the time being. It could be between the two of us while we figure out the details.”
“Another job where?” he asked, hearing the tension in his voice.
“The Tacoma Public Library is looking for someone.”
“Tacoma.” Dean frowned. “Washington.”
She picked at her sandwich, pulling out the tiniest piece of turkey, chewing carefully and swallowing before she explained, “Tacoma is a much larger city. No one there will care if a librarian is single and pregnant.”
“Ah.” He nodded, setting aside his sandwich. “Right. Because we’re pretty provincial here. Burned a witch just last week.”
She didn’t smile. Just as well. He wasn’t feeling particularly good-humored, either.
“I mean that I don’t know anyone there, so I won’t have to explain anything,” she said, her voice stronger now. “And the baby won’t have to worry about being the object of curiosity, or worse. When I interviewed for my job, I was told I’d be working with the community a great deal, and it was made abundantly clear that a large sector of that community is conservative.” Dean opened his mouth, but she overrode him. “I don’t mean ‘conservative’ as in ‘I’d better hide all my copies of Catcher in the Rye.’ But I was asked how I felt about stocking an abundance of G-rated books. In large print.”
He frowned, but Rosie only shrugged. “A return to old-fashioned values was one of the things that appealed to me about moving to this town.” She slid him a glance that was both wry and regretful. “I didn’t get off to a great start. With regard to the old-fashioned values, I mean.”
Dean felt a tiny, figurative knife stick him in the gut. He was the indiscretion she regretted.
“I have friends and family in Portland,” Rosie continued.
“Isn’t Portland several hours from Tacoma?”
“Only three.”
“And Portland is three hours from Honeyford, so I’d have a six-hour drive one way to see my child,” Dean pointed out, not even mentioning seeing her at this point. “There’s no easy way to fly in, either.” She started to respond, but this time he overrode her. “But putting the issue of visitation aside for the time being, you’re proposing to move to a city where you don’t know anyone, when you’re on the brink of one of the biggest changes in your life.”
“I told you, I have family—”
“Three hours from Tacoma. Right.” Controlling his mounting frustration, Dean, too, set his sandwich aside, abandoning the notion of a friendly picnic. “Listen, Rosie—”
“No one calls me, Rosie. I meant to tell you in the library.”
He had a clear memory of her introducing herself as “Rosie.” Rosie Jo, to be exact. Noting the spreading blush on cheeks the color of vanilla ice cream, he had to smile. “That night really was an anomaly for you, wasn’t it?”
“I’ve been cautious my entire life.” She wagged her head, raising a hand to swipe at the tears that were spilling over her lashes. “And obviously I was right to be careful. One misstep and now both of our lives are in complete turmoil. I don’t even understand how it happened.” He quirked a brow, and her blush deepened. “I know how. But I’ve been wracking my brain—” she sniffled loudly “—and I can’t remember not using a condom.” She looked at him in question, biting her lower lip.
Immediately, his groin tightened. He wanted to soothe that worried lower lip with his own mouth. He couldn’t help it: he chuckled, drawing a surprised and resentful look from her. “Sorry, but when I think about that night—which I find myself doing frequently, by the way—condoms are hardly ever the first things that come to mind.” Reaching into the bakery bag, Dean pulled out a napkin, but rather than handing it to her, he brought the makeshift tissue to her nose and dabbed lightly.
When she grabbed the napkin to do the job herself, it didn’t surprise him. Somehow, in some way, she had been hurt, and he was willing to bet that a man had done the deed. You nearly messed her up for anyone else, buddy. Nearly.
Bending ove
r her dark, curly head while she delicately blew her nose, he murmured, “So are condoms really all you think about when you remember that night? When you remember us?”
She gasped so hard, he was afraid she might inhale the napkin. He chose not to relent.
“There is an us, you know. Like it or not, what we started that night is something that owns us both now. Two people, one cause. And, like it or not, passion made that baby you’re refusing to feed. So, like it or not, I do care whether you eat. I care where my baby is going to live and how easy or difficult it’s going to be to get to him. And, I care that that single night in the motel was the best sex I’ve ever had. In my life. Bar none. You may be over it, Rosie, but I’m not. Not by a long shot.”
He sat up straight, reached for his sandwich again and winked at her as he took a bite.
Her eyes were wide and troubled; her soft, plump mouth formed a huge O. A pulse throbbed visibly in her neck, the rhythm reminding him more of a marimba band than a heartbeat.
Yep. He’d made his point.
“Your one-night stand lives in the same town you do, and you were together when you found out you were pregnant even though you hadn’t seen each other since that night?” Daphne recapped what Rosemary had just told her, her sweet voice rising in disbelief.
“Yes,” Rosemary said, trapping the cordless phone between her shoulder and ear while she rummaged through her kitchen pantry, looking for dinner.
Confused, nervous and tense as piano wire since seeing Dean earlier in the day, she had finally decided to break her silence about the pregnancy. After giving brief—very brief—consideration to phoning her mother or one of her sisters, she had decided to lean on Daphne, the only one of her friends so baby crazy that news of a pregnancy, no matter how it had come about, would be received with joyous anticipation.
“Do you feel any different?” Daphne asked with keen interest. “Do you feel pregnant?”
“I’m hungry all the time.” She shoved three baked BBQ potato chips into her mouth, grabbed another handful before she made herself roll up the bag then reached for peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels.
